


in her, the whole fullness of deity dwells

by CelesteIsHere



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25748122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelesteIsHere/pseuds/CelesteIsHere
Summary: "Sebastian is a sinner. He is a hypocrite, a liar, and, worst of all, a fool to think that he could escape any of these labels by hiding in the chantry. Those stone pillars don’t cast large enough shadows to dwell in, nor the candles enough light to vanquish all darkness that he carries."
Relationships: Isabela/Sebastian Vael
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	in her, the whole fullness of deity dwells

**Author's Note:**

> i jolted out of bed at 1am to write this in a fever because i became overwhelmed with adoration for these two

At his core, Sebastian Vael is a whore. He is hedonistic and selfish and is blindsided by his own passions. Even when chaste, he cannot tie himself to one ideal or one lifestyle long enough to be called committed, just as he once could not be faithful to one person. 

However, no living being is without flaws, and to exist is to make mistakes and grow. Every behavior is taught and can be untaught. These are lessons that Mother Elthina gave him after he crawled back to the chantry, desperate for some semblance of purpose. He had grown weary with life, with his own convictions, and, as it turned out, faith was a stronger glue than indulgence ever was.

These lessons are what he believed until Isabela showed up at his room in the middle of the night.

He wasn’t sure why he was up that late. It didn’t seem like Isabela was sure why she was there either. She slowly made her way around the room, picking up his possessions here and there and examining them. All he could think of was how beautiful her dark skin looked, gently illuminated by those candles. 

She said that she was bored and made a move to leave. As her body was halfway turned towards the door, she looked at him. This was the worst thing she could have done.

They came together, all hands and lips and unspoken excuses. 

He wanted to hate her, at first. It was _her_ that was tempting him away from his holy life. It was _her_ that would prevent him from walking at the Maker’s side. He had pulled her hair, tore at her clothes in angry lust. But, as she got on her knees with the utmost grace, held him with delicate yet weathered fingers, took him like _he_ was something to be revered, he realized that it was his own fault that he would never walk with the Maker. Even after all his repenting, he still enjoys killing, revenge, drinking, and _this_. 

Sebastian is a sinner. He is a hypocrite, a liar, and, worst of all, a fool to think that he could escape any of these labels by hiding in the chantry. Those stone pillars don’t cast large enough shadows to dwell in, nor the candles enough light to vanquish all darkness that he carries. 

He spent his daylight hours revering Andraste, but from that night on he sang the chant of light a little weaker, for in the night he works in perfect piety for a new deity. This deity sings, too, but she sings his name punctuated by the most holy of gasps.

On another night, he is in her room at the Hanged Man. It’s a Friday night, and the pub is bursting with sound even in the witching hour. It threatens to deafen those who are not drunk enough to join in, but nothing could distract Sebastian from his pious work.

He stares down at her, eyes dark with passion and awe. Her _body_ , Maker, her body. But, just considering her body would be doing her a disservice. It's what she wants- to be dismissed and underestimated, for her partners to never look her in the eye and regard her as the perfect paradox she is.

It's not just her body; it's the slope of her nose, the gentle curve of her jaw, the tight curls kept back in that bandana. It's the way her eyes shine and her lips curl, baring her teeth in the most devilish, most divine dare. 

Isabela is untouchable, yet he finds his hands reaching out for her. She is the heat of fire, the shock of lightning, the sharp edge of a beautiful dagger. Like all of these things, touching her leaves a scar- a glorious brand of his own lust. It strikes him again and again as he kisses her again and again. 

He wants to say that they make love, but that is not accurate. Neither of them have it in them to love one another, not truly. Though, perhaps their perceptions of love are warped, twisted things. Perhaps what they have is a form of love. He would not end the world for her; she would not change herself for him. These are things that stories tell you are inalienable from love, but is it not love to linger in her doorway, trying to come up with an excuse to stay? Is her soft beckoning back to bed not adoration? 

Maker, he wishes she was mean. He wishes she would tell him to leave and avoid his eyes in the daylight hours. He wishes she would not use that soft voice with those eyes shining in the dark to say "don't go". 

Because, Maker forgive him, he does something worse than indulging in mindless lust. He walks wordlessly over to the bed and crawls in beside her. And- this is the worst part- they don't even have sex again. He just holds her, running his fingers through her hair and up and down her back. He holds her like she is holy, like she is a priceless idol made from pure gold, like she is a beautiful woman that deserves to be held. 

When she looks up at him, he pretends to ignore the tears in her eyes. 

They're both looking for something, waiting for a hole in their souls to be filled. For right now, they hold each other tight and don't feel so empty.


End file.
